


Here at the End of All Things

by TheDiamondSword400



Series: Ends and Beginnings and Ends again [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Basically Everyone is Depressed, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester joins the Avengers, Depressed Clint Barton, Depressed Dean Winchester, Depressed Natasha Romanov, Depressed Steve Rogers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Friendship, Grieving Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Major Charactor Deaths(Mentioned), Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21647038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDiamondSword400/pseuds/TheDiamondSword400
Summary: Sequel to Please Not Him (Or Him). inspired by a comment by prythian who wanted more.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Avengers Team
Series: Ends and Beginnings and Ends again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560559
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	1. Meetings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prythian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prythian/gifts).



Lebanon, Kansas was a small town in the exact center of the United States. And it was one of the few places that had been left relatively unscathed by the recent tragedy. Six months ago half the universe was destroyed, turned to dust where they stood.

Three wooden crosses stood at the center of town, commemorating those locals who had been lost. The Lebanon Three.

Alice Jean Mast, seventeen. Died in the middle of her high school science class.

John Himmons, sixty-four. Died eating lunch with his wife.

Burt Mortain, thirty-two. Died playing Frisbee with his dog.

There was talk of providing a more permanent memorial, most likely marble with a bronze plaque. All very respectful.

Dean hated it with a vengeance.

It was the only thing he really felt anymore. He had been basically numb for the last six months. He didn't care about anything. He was so far beyond sympathy he might as well be on the moon. The only reason the Impala was as pristine as usual was the ingrained habits of several decades. The only reason he'd left the bunker was because a little voice in the back of his brain that sounded a lot like Sam had guilted him into buying groceries. It did that about once a month. the last vestiges of himself that cared about self-preservation would use his baby brother's voice to get him off his ass.

_You haven't eaten in five days. Have an apple._

_The fridge has been empty for a week. Go shopping._

The only reason Dean hadn't starved to death or killed himself was that voice. The lack of cold spots, EMF and flickering lights made it clear it wasn't a ghost. Just a figment of his imagination.

But it was all he had left.

Dean nodded absent-mindedly to the cashier as he grabbed the plastic bag holding a few apples and pears and strode out the door, heading for the Impala. He paused beside the car to grab the keys from his pocket, glancing at his reflection in the window. He numbly acknowledged the fact that he looked rough.

He had let his beard grow out and his lack of appetite had given him a haggard appearance. Reliving the worst day of his life every night for the past six months had caused dark bags to take up permanent residence under his eyes. He couldn't find it in himself to give a damn.

A flicker of movement in the glass made him frown and stare. Reflected in the window, something glinted in the sunlight on the roof across the street. Something metal.

Instincts of a lifetime taking over, he dropped to the ground as a projectile shot past, sailing over the top of the Impala and shattering the window of the jacked up truck on the other side. A women who was exiting the store behind him screamed and dove back into the shop.

_A woman screamed as her chest disintegrated . . ._

Dean shook the memory from his mind as he lifted his head cautiously and glanced into the truck. A long black shaft was embedded into a pair of fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror, swaying slowly back and forth.

His mouth fell open in disbelief.

An arrow.

Someone had tried to shoot him with an arrow.

Rage and adrenaline shot through his veins. After everything, no way was he going out skewered by fricking Robin Hood!

He ducked back down as another whizzed past, grazing him and burying itself into a nearby wooden pole. Grabbing his gun from where he had shoved it into his jeans, Dean looked around. The street between the store and the building his attacker had shot from was usually pretty empty. At the moment it was blocked by a beat up gray Toyota, the movement and muffled shouting coming from inside denoting a thoroughly freaked out driver.

It also provided the perfect cover between the parking lot and the small alley beside his attacker's perch. Giving a predatory grin of satisfaction Dean bolted across the street, keeping low. As he passed behind the Toyota he heard the driver yelp as a loud ping! sounded from the roof of the car. He paused as another arrow dropped to the ground beside him and looked up at the deep grove it had torn in the roof. A bit of reflexive protectiveness flared up for his unprotected Baby and faded as quickly as it had come, unacknowledged as he scrambled the last few feet to the alley.

And was slammed face first to the ground by a deafening blast.

He twisted around in shock to see a mountain of blue foam expending from the ground behind him, lifting the car up on two wheels and covering the driver's side doors as it grew. The poor sod trapped inside sounded like he was having a mental breakdown.

A dark figure suddenly dropped down in front of him and swung a knife at his head.

Dean rolled out of the way and brought his gun up to train on his attacker. The weapon was kicked out of his hand by a black boot and a knife slashed out at his stomach. Dean dodged, grabbing the demon killing knife from where he had hidden it in his boot and turned the blade aside, kicking the guy in the knee as he scrambled to his feet. The guy dodged the kick, aiming a chopping blow at the hand holding the weapon. Dean grabbed the guy's wrist and pulled him forward to ram his elbow into the masked face. The attacker bent backwards and twisted around to slice viciously at Dean's right knee at the same time the hunter's foot shot out.

Dean cried out as the blade bit into his flesh, leg buckling as the blade bit through his jeans and into muscle.

The guy fell back with a surprised grunt as the hard sole of Dean's boot slammed into his face.

Dean lay on his back, dazed and staring up at the narrow strip of bright sky visible over head. He blinked as the masked man reappeared. Green eyes narrowed as the hooded figure towered over him, knife held loosely in one hand. The cold weight of the demon killing knife was heavy in his palm and he tightened his fingers around the blade. “Go ahead.” He growled, glaring up at his attacker “Kill me. You've already taken everything that matters.”

He closed his eyes to await the blow and allowed himself to indulge in a quiet prayer. Wherever he ended up, let Cas and Sam both be waiting.

He frowned in confusion as instead of the pain of a stab wound he felt a slight tug on his jacket. Dean opened one eye to see his attacker pull his wallet from his jacket “You are a seriously overqualified mugger.” he grumbled, more annoyed then anything. Really, this was just his luck.

He quirked an eyebrow as the mugger opened his wallet and just sat there a moment, the sound of sirens rising in the distance.

Was this guy for real? He had only the two dollars in change from the market and his driver's license in there. He had had the wallet itself for ten years. It wasn't like the guy had options!

The guy turned the wallet around and Dean's heart froze in his chest as he suddenly remembered that there was something else in the wallet.

Sam and Cas stared back at him from either side of his own smiling face. The picture had been taken eight months ago in a moment of drunken comradely. It was the only picture ever taken of the three of them.

Tears pricked at his eyes and he swallowed thickly. He met the man's face with a fierce glare, a surge of angry protectiveness piercing through the numbness of his soul. He would rip out the guy's damned throat if he tried to take that picture.

Guarded green eyes met their enraged counterparts.

Dean's homicidal internal monologue faltered as he man closed the wallet and pushed it back into his pocket. He gasped in surprise as the man suddenly pulled him to his feet, his arm pulled over the dark shoulders as a blacked clothed arm wrapped around his waist. Dean's mouth worked as he was dragged past the shrieking driver and his trapped car towards the Impala. His attacker unlocked the passenger door and shoved him inside.

The guy walked around the car and climbed in the driver's door.

Confused and feeling uncomfortably off kilter, Dean stared as the guy started the car and pulled out of the parking lot just as the police swarmed the store.

He let his head slump against the seat as his vision blurred and swam. He didn't much care about the motives of the stranger driving his baby or the apparent blood loss from what ever the guy had sliced open in his leg.

As his vision faded to black all he thought about was that he was going to see his brothers again.

Dean blinked to clear his vision as he returned to consciousness. One of the art deco light fixtures that lined the bunker's ceiling settled into clarity above him and he frowned uncertainly.

The old couch he was laying on was still a lumpy monstrosity.

His leg still pulsed with pain.

There was still a numb emptiness where his soul was supposed to be.

If this was heaven it was a huge disappointment.

The soft sound of metal on metal drew his attention and he turned his head. Dean stiffened as he caught sight of the figure cleaning off the medical equipment laid out on a tray on the library's table. The black clothes clearly belonged to his attacker. But he had removed his mask. The face that had been revealed was one he had become familiar with in the last few months.

“Are you Hawkeye?” he asked, voice sounding bland even to his own ears.

The other man lifted his head and looked at him, expression surprised “I am.” he looked back down at the scalpel he was cleaning “Not a lot of people remember that.” he muttered softly, sounding almost bitter.

“So any particular reason a superhero tried to kill me just to turn around and patch me up?” Dean asked, curious. Six months ago he would have been more concerned then merely curious. Six months ago he would have demanded to know how the guy had found the bunker.

Six months ago someone else would have been asking.

“I figured letting you live would be a far worst sentence.”

Dean merely quirked his brow at that, impressed that someone could read him so easily “Huh. And what exactly am I being sentenced for? Last I checked the government thought I was already dead.”

Clint Barton hesitated before replying. A couple of weeks after his family had turned to dust he had crossed paths with a drug dealer a few blocks from Lila's old school. The thought that his family was dead while someone like that survived had sparked off the last few months of vigilantism and bloodshed. Dean Winchester, infamous serial killer and occultist, was supposed to be just another in an ever expanding list. He had recognized the man standing in the crowd during a local news broadcast discussing the Lebanon Three and had come straight here.

He wasn't surprised the man had proven to be a good fighter. But that he had given up so quickly had been disquieting. The fact that he'd begged for death had thrown Clint for a loop. The way his dead green eyes had flared to life upon seeing the picture of the two men in his wallet had hit a little close too home.

Dean Winchester clearly knew what he'd been accused of and the evidence was strongly against him. The world would be a safer place with him dead.

One less bastard not walking the earth while his family was dead.

And yet . . .

He hadn't lied when he said that letting him live would be a far crueler sentence. It was easy the see that Dean Winchester would have been happiest six feet under. But there was . . . something in the empty green eyes.

Something that reminded him of another pair of green eyes. One he had also intended to kill.

His instincts had been right about Natasha. Was he willing to take the same chance on the man in front of him?

“The Government still thinks so as far as I'm aware.” he said, keeping the evidence of his swirling thoughts off his face.

Dean shot him a look “So if you're not here to arrest me, what are you doing here?” he asked, pushing himself up on the couch.

Clint considered his response for a moment before coming to a decision “My family died six months ago.” he confessed, not entirely comfortable being so blatantly honest. The flare of emotion across the other man's face showed that he had caught the implication though, which he was hoping for “A few weeks after that I caught a man selling meth a short distance from my daughter's school. That half of every living thing in the universe was destroyed but there are still people like that walking around?” he shook his head “I wasn't going to stand for that.”

“So you've been killing every S.O.B. that dared to keep breathing while your kid was dead.” Dean nodded slowly, expression surprisingly understanding “I take it I was next on your list of bastards to gank?” When Clint nodded, he shot him a disbelieving frown “So why didn't you?” he demanded, the first real emotion not born from grief flaring to life in his eyes.

“Well, what is it you want?” Dean glared at the other man, propped up on his elbows. He felt a flare of disappointment slice through his growing rage.

He meets an actual superhero and the guy wants to kill him.

Just his luck.

Refusing to think too hard on the reason behind the anger burning in his veins, Dean clenched his jaw and waited for an answer.

Hawkeye fixed him with an unreadable look “About five years ago, to offer you a job.”

Dean blinked. _Say what?_ “And now?” he asked, bemused, his rage dampening slightly.

Hawkeye was silent for a moment then leaned forward in his seat, clasping his hands between his knees “How about a purpose?”

Dean scoffed, opening his mouth to voice a strong refusal. He had a purpose in life. Had had one since he was four freaking years old!

Then closed his mouth, the empty numbness that had been his constant companion for the last six months settling back into his gut.

His purpose had always been to watch out for his baby brother.

Who had died, turning to dust between his hands.

Sam was gone.

And hunting? Killing things, saving people. The family business. The thing one might call his secondary purpose?

He had seen reports. There were plenty of monsters still out there. Clear signs of a vamp nest only a few towns away. A haunting in Lawrence. A werewolf near the Oklahoma border.

And he had done nothing. Only leaving the bunker when the imaginary ghost of his dead brother guilt-tripped him into going to the store.

If Sam and Cas were still alive they would give him a good kick in the ass.

“What kind of purpose?”


	2. Armor up and say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Clint raid the Bunker's armory and get things squared away before heading out.

The bunker's armory was massive.

Weapons of every shape and size lined the walls and covered the multiple shelves. Sam had once warned him against going beyond the first row until he had finished the inventory. He had been surprised when Dean had readily agreed.

Telling Dean to stay away from a room full of weapons was like telling a toddler to pace themselves on Halloween Candy.  
But after the time he'd seen Sam's brain nearly melt out of his ears from handling a cursed pocket knife he hadn't been too tempted. Thankfully, Gadreel had been able to quickly set things right after Dean had gotten the thing away from him.Despite all the bad the angel had done, he was still thankful to him for that.  
It was also one of the instances he hadn't gotten around to telling Sam about.  
Out of all the rooms in the bunker, the armory was also the one with the most of Sam in it. Which meant that Dean had been avoiding it like the plague.

A desk was pressed against one wall with a wooden swivel-chair in front of it, turned towards the door. It had once used by the Men of Letters to assemble and box up the many instruments of death they'd stored in the room.

Sam had used it when working on his inventory.

An opened box containing rows on rows of neatly packaged skinny little daggers sat opened on the far side of the desk. The desk was covered with papers, a clipboard balanced precariously atop the haphazard pile. The clipboard containing the highly prized incomplete inventory Sam had devoted every possible moment to organizing.

Sam had actually been sitting at the desk when Dean had suggested they head for Chicago on a possible case. His younger brother had been scribbling away at the top sheet of paper on the clipboard when he had stuck his head in the room. He could still picture the way his little brother had smiled before agreeing to join him and Cas on the hunt.

The hunt they had died on, right in front of him.  
The bunker was such a labyrinth, if he hadn't convinced them to go on that hunt, how long would it have been before he realized they'd died?  
Dean shoved the thought violently to the back of his mind and grabbed the clipboard from the desk. If they were going to take out every son of a bitch that dared keep breathing they would need weapons. Which meant Sam's inventory was invaluable.  
He shoved it at Hawkeye as the man followed him into the room “Look over this.” he commanded and moved towards the rack attached to the wall beside the door.

Despite how much he hated the idea of someone else handling his little brother's things, reading Sam's chicken scratch just might break him. He looked over the weapons on display. It was mainly guns and other equally modern armaments like a grenade launcher and a high voltage taser.  
He heard the other man let out a low whistle and turned.  
“You weren't kidding, were you? I mean, take these things,” he lifted one of the daggers from the box and held it up. The blade gleamed like molten metal beneath the fluorescent lights “They are apparently used to kill something called a rugaru.”  
Dean blinked “Rugarus?” he glanced at the box in surprise “We'll definitely taking those.” He declared and turned back to the wall.  
The two spent the next few minutes gathering up weapons and strapping them to their persons. Hawkeye – who had revealed his name was Clint Barton – drew his hand back from a box after consulting the clipboard. He let out a low hiss “That's the fifth cursed object in the last thirty minutes. Whoever made this thing is proving to be a lifesaver.” he declared and folded a page over the top of the clipboard  
Dean, who was standing before a stack of swords under a label that read 'Enchanted, Not Life-threatening', looked over at the other man with a proud smile on his face “Yeah, he really was.” he muttered, more to himself then anything.

He turned back to the swords and took one off the rack. The sword had a black sheath with a wide strap and a smooth leather handle sporting old stains. It looked a little like the blades used in some of the action movies he sometimes watched, the ones Sam and Cas would always complain were 'Historically Inaccurate'. The tag attached to the handle declared it to be Greco-Roman. The short description underneath revealed that the blade had been spelled so that if the wielder cut himself on the blade before battle while thinking of his enemies, victory was assured. Clearly whoever had made the thing was pro self-harm  
From that he could make a pretty good guess what the stains were.  
Dean frowned thoughtfully and glanced at the other blades beside it. Beside it was a scimitar with a dragon head on the hilt and a description written in red ink hanging from the handle. It was written in Sam's familiar handwriting and so he only permitted himself a quick scan of the words. But apparently it turned you into a one man army for the price of burning your hands into useless stumps. Clearly not life-threatening was a term used loosely.  
Coming to a decision he slipped the self-harm sword onto his back and took stock of what he had. Including the sword he had two of the rugaru daggers and a pair of bracers with concealed knifes. He also had the demon killing knife and his ivory handled gun tucked in the wristband of his jeans.  
Hawkeye strode over to him, a short sword now resting at his right hip and a set of bracers matching Dean's on his forearms. The the handle of one of the more modern weapon was visible over his left shoulder and the hilt of a katanna was visible over the right. It was the one from the bunker's library. Dean had given it to the other man after agreeing to join him as a sort of peace offering.  
“You ready to go?” Hawkeye asked, tilting his head curious at him.  
Dean glanced away to eye the desk with its scattered papers. Ridding the world of every lowlife still kicking would take a long time, which meant it was unlikely to come back here. It also meant he was likely to be expanding his hunting beyond the good ol' US of A.  
“Not yet. There's something I need to do first.”

Dean trailed his fingers over the Impala's glossy black hood with the tenderness of a lover.  
Clint – that was Hawkeye's real name, he should really start using it – had cleaned his blood off the interior while Dean had been passed out on the couch.  
That had been a definite point in his favor. Not that the guy needed any more. Dean still had enough of a kid in him to be over the moon at the man's offer to join up. The guy was a Superhero after all.  
His Baby was none the worse for wear after the black hole he had fallen into for the past few months. The empty pit was still there and he doubted it would ever go away.  
What Clint had offered him felt like it would provide a distraction at the very least. Perhaps even a motivation to get out of bed and do something with his life. In truth he had the feeling that he was standing at a precipice, that walking out that door with the disgraced hero was the equivalent to jumping.  
For the first time in years Dean thought of his father.

He had a feeling John Winchester had felt the same cliff edge at his feet after his wife had died and he learned about the monsters in the shadows.  
It seemed taking that jump was in the Winchester blood.  
He looked at his reflection in the Impala's gleaming hood. He had shaved after leaving the armory and changed into one of Clint's spare ninga-like outfits he had convinced the other man to loan him. It fit him quite well despite the fact that the other man was a good four inches shorter. Clint had left the legs long to add a bit of padding beneath the greaves he tended to wear so thankfully the pant legs weren't to short. To put it simply the man staring back him looked nothing like the empty shell he had been just a short while ago. That fact that it was a complete stranger to the hunter he used to be went without saying.  
He moved to the driver's side door, still trailing his fingers lightly over the vehicle, and looked in the window. The image of all the times he had sat in there beside Sam flickering like a death echo before his eyes.

They had grown up in the car, it was the closest thing they had to a home.  
And it was time to say goodbye.  
He had locked the doors to the only three bedrooms that had seen use in the last decade, taking a last long look inside Cas and Sam's rooms. Sam's had been as spartan as it had when he had moved in, bed made with hospital corners. But his favorite shampoo had been in the bathroom and a picture of Sam from Stanford with his arms around a smiling Jessica was propped up on the bedside table. Right beside the worn picture of their family in Lawrence standing in front of their house before the fire and a very familiar pendent.  
The weight of the gold horned face was heavy beneath his shirt. The realization that Sam had pulled it out of that motel trashcan all those years ago and never said anything broke parts of his heart he didn't think could still be broken.  
Castiel's room had been even more barren. Since the Angel had not needed to sleep he had barely used it so it remained nearly untouched. Nearly except for the meticulously drawn framed portrait of Clare Novak sitting on the dresser. If that didn't describe his angelic friend in a nutshell he didn't know what did.  
He had taken the key to the bunker and placed it in an envelope along with a letter addressed to Jody Mills. He had done just enough research to learn that the Sioux Falls Sheriff and her foster daughters had survived after leaving Chicago all those months ago. But he had already been too far gone in his grief to do anymore then that. Refusing to answer when she had blown up his phone with frantic calls for about a month afterwards and leaving the multiple voice-mails unacknowledged.  
Now he only had one thing left to do.  
He looked up as Clint approached with a clean trap. Dean had refused to use the dusty and stained one folded up on a nearby shelf against one wall of the large garage. Now that he was finally pulling himself out of the yawning chasm in his soul there was no way in hell he was leaving his baby under a moldy, patched tarp.  
Clint helped him spread the tarp over the Impala and stepped back as Dean grabbed a stick of chalk from a nearby shelf. He carefully drew protection symbols over the materiel like a painter putting the finishing strokes on his masterpiece.  
When Dean finally stepped back it was with great reluctance. Every protective and defensive symbol he knew had been drawn with care on the tarp covering his Baby. The Impala was now quite possibly the most heavily defended thing in the world. He wished he could do more  
Clint came up to him and clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder, turning him away from the beloved car and guiding him across the garage.  
Dean climbed into the driver's seat of Castiel's gold Lincoln and started the car as Clint joined him in the front. As he shifted the car into gear and left the only home he had ever know behind, he couldn't help a twist of dark humor.

Maybe while hunting down all the baddies, the Pimpmobile would finally met its maker.


	3. Avengers Interlude

The Avenger compound was quiet as the last vestiges of sunset slowly faded away. But Natasha had never had the time to worry about such things. Even now, five years after half the universe had been destroyed, there was work to be done. She cut her sandwich in half without taking her eyes off the holograms in front of her, gaze intent.   
“Yeah, we boarded that 'highly suspect warship' Danvers pinged.” Rocket continued his report.  
“It was an infectious garbage scow.” Nebela cut in in a vitriol tone with a withering glare towards Danvers.  
“So thanks for the hot tip.” Rocket finished, turning towards the hologram further down the line.  
“Well, you were closer.” Carl shrugged, unmoved by the grouchy pair  
“Yeah, and now we swell like garbage.”  
“You get a reading on those tremors?” Natasha asked the Wakandian general, speaking over the raccoon before he could start another fight  
“'Twas a mild subduction under the African plate.” Okoye informed her, eyeing her with a heavy stare.   
“Do we have a visual? How are we handling it?” Natasha demanded, pointedly ignoring the Wakandian's tone. Okoye had been getting quite vocal in her belief that Nat had been overreacting to things recently, trying to find disasters to distract herself from her grief.  
“Nat,” the General's tone was full of aggravating sympathy and the gentle sort of condescension normally reserved for annoyingly frightened children “It's an earthquake under the ocean. We handle it by not handling it.”  
Nat pointedly forced herself to ignore the dignified African woman's gaze by turning her attention to Danvers “Carol, are we seeing you here next month?” she asked the blond.  
“Not likely.”  
“What? You gonna get another haircut?” Rocket demanded sarcasticly, gesturing to her head.  
Carol turned to fix him with an annoyed stare “Listen, fur face, i'm covering a lot of terrertory. The things that are happening on earth are happening everywhere. On thousands of planets.”  
“All right, all right. That's a good point. That's a good point.” Rocket muttered, relenting. The fact that he had the good grace to look sheepish as he dropped his gaze to his feet showed how rough the last few years had been on the creature.   
Carol, her eyes flickering a bit guiltily at lashing out, turned back the Natasha “So, you might not see me for a long time.” she added, recomposing herself.  
“all right.” It was really hard not to feel like she was being abandoned all over again. She forced her features into a firm expression and leaned forward to brace her hands on the desk “Um, well, This channel's always active. So, if anything goes sideways, anyone's making trouble where they shouldn't, comes thorough me.”  
The others voiced their assent.  
“All right.” Nat straightened as the Guardians and Okoye disconnected.  
“Good luck.” Carol said, glancing at Rodney before following suit.   
Nat sat down and sighed tiredly. She glanced back up and did a double take when she noticed that Rodney was still present. She stared at him a moment in consideration “Where are you?” she asked, folding her arms in front of her. She not quite able to remember where the other Avenger had gone.  
“Mexico. The federales found a room full of bodies. Looks like a bunch of cartel guys, never even had a chance to get their guns off.”  
Nat sighed and propped her feet up on the desk “It's probably a rival gang.”  
“Except it isn't. It's definitely Barton.” Nat dropped her gaze as Rodney continued “What he's done here. What he's been doing for the last few years since he met up with Winchester. I mean the scene that he left.” He spread his hands “I gotta tell you, there's a part of me that doesn't even want to find him.”  
Nat tried to ignore the ugly feeling that rose up at that, working her jaw and biting at her inner lip. Grief and betrayal without a reasonable outlet. Not even an unreasonable one she could justify. Always finding the aftermath of his rampages but never him. Ever since a little over four years ago when they had found a sword buried in the grass beside the Lebanon Three memorial she had been desperate to find him.  
The toe tags that had been tied to the hilt of the sword had only raised more questions. They had been written on in Clint's familiar handwriting and had been the first bit of evidence that he had survived.  
A grainy security video that had turned up a few months later showing Barton and Winchester slaughtering a human trafficking ring was the last time she had seen his face.  
Yet she couldn't just give up.  
“Will you find out where he's going next?” she asked at last, reaching for her sandwich. Taking a bite, she looked back up at him.  
Rodney stared at her for a long moment of heavy silence “Nat.” he sighed  
“Please.”  
Rodney shifted his weight and turned away “Okay.” he agreed softly before stepping out of frame.  
And she was alone once again.  
A lump raising in her throat, Nat held her hands together as if in prayer and pressed them to her face as she tried to stop the tears from falling. The fact that the first friend she had ever made had survived should have been a cause for celebration. Instead she was stuck watching him go down the same dark path he had saved her from all those years ago, unable to stop it. She took a shaky breath and shuddered.  
“You know I'd offer to cook you dinner but you seem pretty miserable already.” Steve Rogers smiled at her, soft and kind, full of compassion and devoid of pity.  
In her experience, Captain America had been the only one she'd ever met able to find that certain emotional blend guaranteed not to get a rise out of anyone. She was so incredibly grateful he was still with her in this.  
She took another deep breathe and lowered her hands to her lap. She turned her head to look at the larger man where he leaned against the shelf “You here to do your laundry?” she asked, allowing a hint of teasing to enter her voice as she pushed aside the pain.  
Blue eyes stared at her, at hint of concern in his eyes “I'm here to see a friend.”   
She was barely able to keep from articulating the sigh that wanted to come out “Clearly your friend is fine.” she clasped her hands in her lap. First Okoye and Rodney and now Steve. Why did everyone keep looking at her like she was fragile?  
Steve looked down at his hands and fiddled with his keys for a moment before looking back at her “You know, I saw a pod of whales when I was coming over the bridge.”  
Nat raised her eyebrows in surprise “In the Hudson?”  
“There's fewer ships. Cleaner water.”  
She crossed her arms and looked up at ceiling as she steeled herself “You know if your about to tell me to look on the bright side,” she poked at her cheek with her tongue “Um,” she looked at him with a hint of warning in her gaze “I'm about to hit you in the head with a peanut butter sandwich.” she flashed a closed lipped smile that ended up a little more honest of her emotional state then she'd like.  
He looked down with a smile, more amused by here threat then anything “Sorry.” he said, straightening “force of habit.” Walking over, he dumped his jacket and keys on the table before sitting down across from her with a sigh. She leaned forward to grab the plate with the sandwich and pushed it towards him. Steve leaned back in his chair and stared at the sandwich for a minute in silence before raising his eyes to her again.  
“You know I keep telling everybody they should move on.” he sighed, his usually open features distant “Grow. Some do.” Nat looked away, dropping her gaze “But not us.”  
“If I move on who does this?”   
“Maybe it doesn't need to be done.”  
If that wasn't a metaphorical bullet to the brain she didn't know what was. She gave her head a slight shake “I used to have nothing. And then I got this. This job. This family.” she couldn't help but smile as her eyes became distant. Fury. Clint. The avengers. “I was better because of it.”  
Steve just watched her, supportive and silent.  
She swallowed thickly before continuing “And even though their gone,” she shook her head, not quite believing that she was confessing this “I'm still trying to be better.”  
“I think we both need to get a life.”  
“You first.”


	4. Supernatural Inturlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hit gone wrong reveals things to Dean that makes everything just a little bit worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this plot point in mind when i first started writing this story but i had trouble figuring out how to frame it. Can't promise when anymore actual Endgame Movie chapters will be posted but this story is still being worked on. I haven't abandoned it, so you don't have to worry! :) Enjoy this in the mean time!

Dean cursed as he scrambled down the side of the building in the dark. It seemed the Good Ol' Winchester Luck was still working perfectly.

He had been working with Barton for a few years now, hunting down baddies of both the supernatural and human variety. Their most recent targets were a gang of human traffickers working out of New England. It was supposed to be a simple job, just like they'd done a million times before. Making sure all exits but one were blocked, one of them heading in while the other stayed outside to pick off anyone who tried to escape. It worked well. On humans, that is.

On the seven vamps he had just seen go inside? Not so much.

He just hoped Clint could stay alive long enough for him to help. He couldn't stand the thought of losing anyone else.

Drawing the demon killing blade, he burst through the door. And stumbled to a halt.

Bodies lay strewn about all over the floor of the warehouse. Even with the seven vamps there was far more then they had expected. Which would would normally be more then enough to be concerned about. But his gaze was immediately drawn to the body of Clint Barton, laying in a puddle of blood.

And the figure in a black dress kneeling beside him.

“Amara?” Dean stared at her in disbelief, stunned. What the hell was God's sister doing here?!

The Darkness, one of the oldest and most powerful beings in the universe, looked over at him “He'll be alright.”

He blinked and looked back at Clint. He only now realized that despite the large amount of blood beneath him the other man didn't appear to have so much as a scratch.

He supposed he should be grateful for that. But instead he was suddenly angry “Could Chuck not be bothered to drop in?”

Amara's expression shifted into an unreadable look and she stood up “Things are a bit more complicated then you realize.”

“Complicated?!” Dean exclaimed, green eyes flashing with rage. “After everything that's happened that's all you have to say for yourself?! 'It complicated'!?! Half the universe turned to ash and god can't be bothered to get off his ass and do something about it!-”

“You aren't the only one who's lost a brother!” She snapped.

Dean's brain stuttered to a halt and his blood ran cold.

What?

_What?_

She couldn't possibly mean-?

Amara's face was visibly pained and she nodded, letting out a sigh “He's dead, Dean. God died along with half of his creations.”

“But . . . how?” He demanded, voice very small. His mind was having trouble processing what she'd told him

A strained look spread over her features “Whatever it was, it just didn't kill flesh and bone. It killed souls. Heaven and hell suffered the same fate as the living..”

Oh, no.

No.

“You don't mean, _half the souls in heaven-?!_ ”

Thankfully, Amara shook her head “My brother used his last few seconds to put up a ward to protect the souls and make it possible for me to run heaven. Which was fortuitous since half the angels were also lost. If he hadn't Heaven would have collapsed even with his protections in place.”

Dean bit his lip, trying to remember how many angels were still kicking around “So there's only two left of the hallelujah choir?”

“Three, actually,” She fixed him with an unreadable look “Despite recent events, Castiel was still counted among the Host.”*

Dean nearly choked on the sudden lump that had appeared in his throat at her words. Cas would have sobbed like a baby if he had been here to hear that.

“Why did you wait so long to show up?” he demanded after he wrestled his emotions back under control “We could have used your help.”

“Because it was impossible before now.” Amara told him “Even with all my power keeping things running, heaven is barely staying afloat. I had to find some way to ensure it wouldn't suffer any adverse effects if I came down here.”

“Well now that you are here, what are you going to do?” Dean demanded and a sudden spark of hope filled him “Could you bring Sam back?”

“No.” She said, killing his hope before it really had a chance to take off “All of my strength is directed towards heaven at the moment. I was barely able to strike down these men or heal your friend.” Amara told him, gesturing to the bodies littering the floor then to Clint in turn

“So you just come down here just to tell me you can't help?” He demanded angrily. He would have much preferred if she had just continued to ignore him.

“You had a right to know.” She said

Dean's face fell. At any other time, he would have found heaven giving him a bit of well deserved recognition downright euphoric. Now it just felt bittersweet. Sighing, he turned away from her and started towards the storage container pressed against the far wall.

“They're not in there.”

Dean spun back to her in shock “What?!” he demanded. Their information might have been off about how many people were supposed to be here. But surely they hadn't gotten it that wrong!

“I already sent them home.”

Dean's stared at her, mouth working as he tried to process what she just said “You sent them home?” he repeated, stunned.

Amara nodded “I can't reconstruct souls but I could do that. Most of them will wake up in their own beds.” she suddenly looked apologetic “The world deserves a miracle after all that's happened. I'm sorry it's not the one it needed.”

Dean swallowed and shook his head “It's fine. Thank you.” he said. He was still bitter, there's was no use denying it. But thinking about all those people waking in their own beds after being locked in a storage container . . . He couldn't be mad about that.

Amara nodded “I'm sorry I couldn't do more. But now I should really get back. I was only able to arrange things so that I could leave for a few minutes.” She said then pointed off to her left “If your interested, the rest of this trafficking group is about five miles that way along with the rest of the Vampire nest. They have been working together for a few years now.”

“Thanks for the information.” Dean said then hesitated a moment “All of it.”

Human and Supernatural Being stared at each other for a moment, something significant passing between them.

Then in a blink she was gone.

On the floor, Clint groaned and stirred. He pushed himself on his elbows, one hand flying to clutch at his throat as he looked around wildly. His gazed locked on the only other living thing in the warehouse and narrowed his eyes “What the hell happened?!” He demanded.

Dean walked over and helped pull him to his feet “It's a long story.” he told him “I'll explain everything on the way. We still have a job to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *To clarify, Castiel being counted among the host means that when heaven's forces were cut in half by Thanos' snap his death counted among heaven's losses, not earth's. hence why they were left with more angels.


	5. She's my favorite Avenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting back into the movie scenes! Enjoy!

The sound of automatic gunfire and shouting tore through the night. The street where the fighting was focused was foggy and cramped. A dark figure jumped down on a pile of bodies and threw a gleaming metal star that flew through the air and took out one of the gunmen.

A man in a white suit scrambled over a silver car, firing wildly before being struck down.

“It's him!” another man in a white and black jacket screamed in frantic rage, an automatic weapon in each hand “He's after Akihika!” he shouted as he fired both in turn. Another star shot out and struck him in the eye, killing him instantly.

A man gripping a sword darted forward to corner the dark figure on a staircase. He was cut down before he even had a chance to raise his blade, tumbling back to the ground. The dark robed figure darted inside, punching and throwing the man who tried to block his path out a window. The sounds of running feet, shouts and gunfire filtered outside, marking the masked man's progress as he made his way though the building. A figure suddenly threw itself out a window, followed closely by the masked man. Feet pounding across the roof, the yakuza leader Akihika leaped down onto the rain drenched streets, stumbling and using his cane to regain his balance.

He stilled and turned as he registered the sound of his attacker dropping down onto the street behind him. Akihika, a middle aged man with a mustache and dignified features gazed over his shoulder at the dark hooded figure that had caused him so much trouble “Why are you doing this?” he demanded and drew a sword from the top of his cane and rested it on his shoulder “We never did anything to you!”

“You survived. Half the planet didn't.” the masked man spun his sheath around and drew his sword, an impressive looking blade with cut outs along the edge “They got Thanos.” The dark man settled into a relaxed stance “You get me.”

Akihika lunged forward, sword raised over his head. The blades clashed as the masked man blocked the strike and darted aside, bringing his blade up vertically to bloke the next attack with ease. The dark figure turned him aside and ducked as the Yakuza leader swiped his blade viciously through the air in a move that would have taken his head. The masked man lashed out with his blade as Akihika spun away and stumbled back, clutching his abdomen in pain as he held his sword out before him.

“You're done hurting people.” the man declared, posture one of ease. As if he was not standing in a downpour in the middle of a sword fight.

“We hurt people?” Akihika repeated in disbelief, lowering his sword to his side and gave a humorless laugh as he spread his arms, gesturing to the bodies strewn about “You're crazy!” he shouted and swept his blade up as he lunged forward.

He was brought to a jarring halt as the masked man blocked the attack, using his own forearm to brace the blade. His fist lashed out and suddenly the yakuza leader found himself with his attacker's sword at his throat, his own weapon raised uselessly at his shoulder.

Akihika scowled in rage and lashed out. Blades flashed and the masked man got in a few good punches before the notched sword bit into the yakuza leader's gut.

His eyes widened briefly in shock and he slowly turned, raising his blade to rest against his palm. He gave a shout and lunged at the dark figure. The masked man just darted aside, his sword slicing through the flesh of the yakuza leader's neck.

Akihika stumbled, dropping his word as he fell to his knees. He clutched at the torn flesh and reached out the other hand desperately “Wait!” he begged “Help me!” he gazed up at his attacker with wide eyes “I'll give you anything!” he dropped his had to his side as the masked man approached “What do you want?”

“What I want,” the masked man said, suddenly switching to English “you can't give me.” with that he raised his sword and slammed it down through Akihika's skull.

He drew the blade back out and wiped it off on his sleeve before dropping it back to his side. He stood frozen for a moment then reached up to push back his hood and pull off his mask.

“You shouldn't be here.”

Natasha gazed at him from beneath her umbrella, sadly “Neither should you.” she said _'You are too noble to live like this, my friend.'_ She thought to herself.

He turned and Clint stared at Natasha with a tense broken look in his eyes before looking away “I've got a job to do.” he smacked his mask against his palm, tense with emotion.

“Is that what you're calling this? Killing all these people isn't going to bring your family back.” Nat's voice sounded a little flat even to her own ears. Clint lifted his chin slightly, features hardening.

“We've found something.” Natasha strode closer to him, gaze intense and tone softening “A chance. Maybe.”

Clint turned to look at her, features crumbling as she paused beside him. He let a harsh sigh “Don't.” his voice cracked and he swallowed thickly, looking away.

“Don't what?” Natasha asked, voice hardening.

He looked back up at her “Don't give me hope.”

Natasha felt a part of her heart break at that “I'm sorry I couldn't give it to you sooner.” she told him and he dropped his gaze again.

Nat reached out to take his hand in hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Well, you blew it.” a voice suddenly said.

Natasha spun around, drawing the gun from inside her coat and taking aim.

“The perfect opportunity for a Princess Bride reference and you let it slip though your fingers.” Dean Winchester stared at her from a short distance away over the barrel of an ivory handled gun, his green eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Black Widow, I presume?” he said, giving her a once over.

“Pleasure.” Natasha responded and released the safety on her gun.

Dean flashed her a wide grin “I think this might be a good time to admit you're my favorite Avenger.” he said and cocked his gun.

“Okay, that's enough. The both of you.” Clint snapped, stepping between them with his hands raised in a placating gesture

Bang!

Nat stiffened as he pulled the trigger. But the bullet sailed over her shoulder, nowhere close to hitting her. She spun around and watched as a dark shape fell off the wall and hit the ground with a thud.

Clint strode past her and knelt beside the body. He pushed back the hood of the heavy black parka it was wearing to reveal the broad youthful face of a teenage girl with mousy brown hair.

Natasha's features hardened and she spun around to aim her gun back on the other man “You're going to regret that.”

Winchester didn't seem at all concerned with the threat, attention fully upon the other man “Cheek the teeth.”

Keeping her gun fixed on his heart, Nat looked back at Clint with a questioning look. The archer peeled back the kid's gums and Nat's eyes widened in shock at what was revealed. Instead of individual teeth the top row appeared to be a single plate or ridge with two thin fangs overlapping from the bottom. Clint twisted around to shoot Winchester a look “Aibnat alzalam?”

“Heard Akihika bragging about his new pet while waiting for you to make your entrance.” Winchester shrugged, looking pleased with himself “You're lucky I was able to find some mint and milk to soak my bullets in.”

“So that's what kept you.” Clint eyed him with a amused look “Nice to know you weren't aiming for Nat.”

“Hey, I would never do such a thing! I told you, she's my favorite Avenger.” Winchester shot a grin in her direction.

Natasha raised an eyebrow as she looked back at him, still feeling a little off balance. The man actually seemed offended by the implication that he had tried to shoot her.

“Besides, I'm as interested in what she's offering as you.” Green eyes flicked over to fix back on her face and she felt herself stiffen sub-consciously. If she thought Clint's eyes were broken, it was nothing compared to the raw edges she saw in Dean Winchester's gaze “Have you really found a way to bring everyone back?”

Natasha hesitated before replying. She had already organized a full pardon for Barton before she had come to get him, expecting to find that his association with Winchester had merely been a matter of convenience. It now seemed that was the furthest thing from the truth.

She silently cursed herself. Assume nothing. That had been one of the first things she had ever learned and she had foolishly forgotten it. Thankfully, this mistake seemed to be one easily rectified “We think so. And a full pardon if you choose to help us.”

Dean Winchester traded a look with Clint then glanced back at her, green eyes determined “What do you need?”


End file.
